Poetry

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Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim'rous beastie, O what panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa we bickering brattle! 1 wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi murd'ring pattle! That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald. To thole the Winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld! sae hasty, But Mousie, thou are In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men, Gang aft agley, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, For promis'd joy! no thy-lane, I'm truly sorry Man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee otartle, At me, thy poor earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal! 1 doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen-icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request r'u get a blessin wi the lave, An', never miss't! Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi me! The present only toucheth thee: But Och! 1 backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' 1 canna 1 guess an' fear! se Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! It's silly wa's the win's are strewin! An' naething, now, to big a new ane O foggage green! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Baith snell an' keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wast An weary Winter comin fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. Sookiesooker@deviantart.com

A Bottle And Friend There's nane that's blest of human kind, But the cheerful and the gay, man, Fal, la, la, &c. Here's a bottle and an honest friend! What wad ye wish for mair, man? Wha kens, before his life may end, What his share may be o' care, man? Then catch the moments as they fly, And use them as ye ought, man: Believe me, happiness is shy, And comes not aye when sought, man. Robert Burns

ADDRESS TO A HAGGIS POEM BY ROBERT BURNS Fair fá your honest, sonsie face, Great Chieftain ó the Puddin-race! Is there that owre his French ragout, Or olio that wad staw a sow, Aboon them á ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy of a grace As lang 's m y arm. Or fricassee wad mak her spew Wi' perfect sconner Looks down wi'sneering, scornfú view On sic a dinner? The groaning trencher there ye fil! Your hurdies like a distant hill Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time ó need, While thró your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckless as a withed rash, His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, His nieve a nit; Thró bluidy flood or field to dash, O how unfit! His knife see Rustic-labour dight, Ań cut ye up wi' ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like onie ditch; But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his walie nieve a blade, Hé ll make it whissle; An legs, an arms, an heads will sned, Like taps ó thrissle. And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich! Ye Powrs wha mak mankind your care, Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive: Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, Till á their weel-swall'd kytes belyve And dish them out their bill ó fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies; wish her gratefú prayer Are bent like drums; But, if ye wish her gratefú pra yer Gie her a Haggis! Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, Bethankit hums.

THE ROMAN LYRICAL POET HORACE ONCE WROTE, DULCE ET DECORUMEST PRO PATRIA MORI', IN ENGLISH, THIS MEANS IT IS GLORIOUS AND HONOURABLE TO DIE FOR ONE'S COUNTRY'.. O 2010 Classical Comics Ltd "DULCE ET DECORUM EST BY WILFRED OWEN. BENT DOUBLE, LKE OLD BEGGARS UNDER SACKS, KNOCK-KNEED, COUGHING LIKE HAGS, WE CURSED THROUGH SLUDGE, TILL ON THE HAUNTING FLARES WE TURNED OUR BACKS AND TOWARDS OUR DISTANT REST BEGAN TO TRUDGE. MEN MARCHED ASLEEP. MANY HAD LOST d THEIR BOOTS BUT LIMPED ON, BLOOD-SHOD. ALL WENT LAME; ALL BLIND DRUNK WITH FATIGUE; DEAF EVEN TO THE H0OTS OF TIRED, OUTSTRIPPED FIVE-NINES THAT DROPPED BEHIND. O 2010 Classical Comics Ltd QUICK, BOYS! GAS! GAS! AN ECSTASY OF FUMBLING, FITTING THE CLUMSY HELMETS JUST IN TIME; BUT SOMEONE STILL WAS YELLING OUT AND STUMBLING, AND FLOUND'RING LIKE A MAN IN FIRE OR LIME. DIM, THROUGH THE AND THICK. GREEN LIGHT, AŞ UNDER A GREEN SEA, MISTY PANES ISAW HIM DROWNING. O 2010 Classical Comics Ltd IN ALL MY DREAMS, BEFORE MY HELPLESS SIGHT, HE PLUNGES AT ME, GUTTERING, CНOKING, DROWNING. O 2010 Classical Comics Ltd IF IN SOME SMOTHERING DREAMS YOU TOO COULD PACE BEHIND THE WAGON THAT WE FLUNG HIM IN, O 2010 Classical Comics Ltd AND WATCH THE WHITE EYES WRITHINGN HIS FACE, HIS HANGING FACE, LIKE A DEVIL'S SICK OF SIN; IF YOU COULD HEAR, AT EVERY JOLT, THE BLOOD COME GARGLING FROM THE FROTH-CORRUPTED LUNGS, OBSCENE AS CANCER, BITTER AS THE CUD OF VILE, INCURABLE SORES ON INNOCENT TONGUES, O 2010 Classical Comics Ltd MY FRIEND, YOU WOULD NOT TELL WITH SUCH HIGH ZEST TO CHILDREN ARDENT FOR SOME DESPERATE GLORY, THE OLD LIE: DULCE ET DECORUM EST PRO PATRIA MORI. ADAPTATION: JASON COBLEY LINEWORK: JOHN BLAKE COLOURING: MICHAEL REID LETTERING: GREG POWELL O 2010 Classical Comics Ltd

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, And swallows oireling with their shimmering saund; And frogs in the pool singing at night. And wild plum trees in tremulous white; Robins will wear their feathery fire, Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire; And not one will know of the war, not one Will care at last when it is done. Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree, If mankind perished utterly: And Spring herself when she woke at dawn Would searcely know that we were gone.

I AM A CREATURE BY GIUSEPPE UNGARETTI(1916) LIKE THIS STONE AT SAN MICHELE So COLD SO HARD SO ARID SO RESISTANT SO COMPLETELY I NANIMATE MY UNSEEN TEARS DEATH ARE LIKE IS PAID THIS STONE BY LIVING TRANSLATION BY MARCO SONZOGNI AND ROSS WOODS DRAWINGS BY JULIAN PETERS

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About

Poetry is a form of literature, often using rhythmic styles, in a similar way to music

Origin

Poetry as an art form is thought to have possibly predated literacy. Some forms of poetry has been traced back to around 1200 BC, with the Indian^[1] Vedas^[2] and Zoroaster's^[3] Gathas^[4] around 675 BC, and appears to have been composed in poetic form to aid memorization and oral transmission, in prehistoric and ancient societies. Other forms of poetry developed directly from folk songs with many versions of poetry intended for listening, rather than reading.

Spread

Many Classical thinkers used classification in order to assess the quality of poetry. For example, the existing fragments of Aristotle's^[5] Poetics^[6] shows three genres of poetry--the epic, the comic, and the tragic--and develop rules to distinguish the highest-quality poetry in each genre. Aristotle's work later went on to define the basis for most early poetry. Due to the popularity of poetry as an art form, it eventually developed into one of the most profilic forms of literature.